


sing the days of love

by Jemima_Puddleduck



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Post-Episode: s10e12 The Doctor Falls, The Doctor loves Missy's singing, The queen of angst strikes again, Time Lord Angst, seriously though this is totally unnecessary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-11
Updated: 2017-09-11
Packaged: 2018-12-26 13:56:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12060375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jemima_Puddleduck/pseuds/Jemima_Puddleduck
Summary: ~ 'when she is alone in the rooms I hear her humming to keep herself from thinking' - Jean-Paul Sartre ~Missy likes to sing - The Doctor likes to listen{Title from the original lyrics to Missy's theme}





	sing the days of love

It's always quiet, a soft melody. It's the side of her that rarely appears to anyone but him. He loves to listen; it reminds him that she can be gentle. There's a streak of madness too, tucked deep down, that slips out between the notes. It wouldn't truly be her without it, he thinks, and smiles. He listens at the towering grey doors, his back pressed into the metal as if he could slip right through and into her arms. Her idle hum is the only noise drifting from the vault and he can picture her vividly, red lips parted, quick thumbs twiddling and jet black curls gently rocking to and fro. 

He's there most days, for a few minutes at least. He cherishes the melodies pouring from the crack in the doors and lets them fill him up, taking him over from the inside out. Sometimes there's piano, played just for him. The Master in any regeneration knows how to put on a show. There's a certain twinkle in her eyes when she performs that he doesn't think she could ever loose. Part of him adores it, the bravado, the façade. It feels so quintessentially Koschei that it's almost comforting, but he prefers it just to be her. He prefers the serene, idle humming when she takes a moment to forget herself and just drift away. He loves to hear her relaxed, and imagines her splayed out on the bed, sharp blue eyes grazing the ceiling. 

Sometimes he thinks she knows that he listens. Tunes shift and change on his arrival, tailored to him. Unrecognisable melodies merge into Gallifreyan lullabies whenever he steps close and he feels her mind probing at his; he sees the soft lilac and smells the telltale lavender and the silver leaves of home. Sometimes he feels his own mind reaching out and she's soft, pliable, contented. He loves nothing better than when she truly accepts him without a fight. 

The melodies that pour from the vault reveal so much more to The Doctor than Missy would ever let on herself. The tunes grow darker and he knows to stop by with new books and a bar of chocolate, they grow lighter and he knows to bring along a game of scrabble or chess. It's something Koschei has always done, he was never one to express true emotions through words. He remembers lying in the lush red grass of Gallifrey with another small boy at his side, humming as he rips up the deep red blades by the fistful. This is why The Doctor loves the singing most of all, it's a piece of her soul that she's comfortable enough to share with him.

Bill and Nardole don't know. They'd never understand. _'A friendship older than your civilisation, and infinitely more complex.'_ She'd told Clara. She was right, as always. Their deep-seated connection was far beyond the understanding of a human. How was he supposed to tell them that, even after she destroyed all those planets, and killed all those people, he still loved her? How was he supposed to describe to them how her thoughts smelt like lavender and her songs tasted like stardust? It's his most guilty pleasure, to love The Mistress, to press his hands into the cold metal of the vault doors and drink in her music. He doesn't want to share.

 _'That's what I'm trying to teach you, Missy. You understand the universe, you see it, you grasp it, but you never learned to hear the music.'_ He heard hers, a long time ago. He never forgot. 

That's what he misses most. When the vault is empty. It echoes uncomfortably without her song. His footsteps are too loud, and the air is thin. He sighs, and it sounds like a hurricane. When he finally steps away and closes the door, he presses his forehead to the unforgiving metal and wills for something, anything. The smallest whisper, the daintiest hum, the faintest scent of lavender, but it never comes.


End file.
